


when the partys' over

by dreamtowns



Series: the many hearts of an oracle [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Canonical Character Death, Captivity, Chosen King Ignis Scientia, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Depression, Messenger Prompto Argentum, Oracle Noctis Lucis Caelum, Prompto Argentum is Shiva, Role Swap AU, yall idk what this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-10 22:22:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20142937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamtowns/pseuds/dreamtowns
Summary: Noctis exhales. His breath crawls on the glass. He counts his heartbeat and thinks of the sound of clanging metal and gunfire, of blood splattered on marble. Of the Chancellor oh-so-gently placing his fathers’ crown, still so warm with blood, with the echo of his fathers' life, in the nest of Noctis’ curls.A snapshot of Noctis, the last Oracle of Eos, as he lives and breathes beneath the protective custody of the Empire.





	when the partys' over

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Final Fantasy XV. All rights reserved to its developers: Square Enix. All that is mine is the plot of this story in particular and any original characters introduced. No copyright infringement intended. No money is being made from this work. This is purely for entertainment purposes.
> 
> I'm sorry for any spelling/grammar errors! I legit wrote this in like twenty minutes.

Noctis walks quietly; his footsteps make a soft echo of noise. Not enough for an ominous twitch in the MT’s shoulders, but enough that they are ever aware of his existence. Noctis listens to the distant sounds of servants and the few retainers allowed to live after the invasion, his heart twinging in grief. His home used to be filled with noise, even at night, but now? Only the murmurs of ghosts lingered.

He reaches his room with little problems. When he was younger, Noctis caused all sorts of trouble in his grief, in his rage, but even that sputtered and tapered off with time. Other people—innocent people—bore the weight of the consequences of Noctis’ decisions. He must give the Empire little to complain about.

His room is empty of others. Like always. He takes a seat at the vanity dresser that once belonged to his mother, to his grandmother, to all the woman who lived and breathed in these halls. A blue notebook rests on it, pen atop it as if it had always been there. It hadn’t.

As Noctis opens the book, Prompto appears behind him, like always, ever cognizant of when Noctis needs him.

“I see the King of Stone has messaged you,” Prompto says in lieu of a greeting. “Did he send a picture today?”

Noctis hums and flips to the last entrance. Ignis’ neat script flows and blots onto the page, and Noctis smiles a little at the sight of a pressed sylleblossom. Noctis hasn’t seen such a flower in years, not since the Imperial Court made themselves comfortable on Tenebraen soil. The flower his country prides in no longer grows on the soil he yearns to sink his feet into.

But it cannot be. Not anymore.

Noctis hasn’t left the halls of Fenestala Manor since his Ascension.

“He sent a flower,” Noctis informs Prompto as if the Messenger hadn’t looked over his shoulder himself. “A . . . a sylleblossom.”

“How pretty,” says Prompto, and he makes a curious noise at the message. “Has he written anything interesting this time?” With a teasing smile, he adds, “Another recipe, perhaps?”

Noctis chuckles a little, safe in the walls of his room; the only room the Empire has not been allowed to touch. He scans the message and says, “Ah, apparently, he finally bested his Shield—Gladiolus—in combat and celebrated by . . . oh.”

“Hmm? What is it?”

“He . . . he made a Tenebraen pudding,” Noctis replies after a moment. He ignores the ache that spreads deep in his lungs. “My favorite dessert—ah, anyway, Gladiolus and his little sister enjoyed the treat. And his newest friend, someone named Lunafreya, enjoyed it as well, and joked he should become a baker instead of a king.”

Prompto laughs quietly.

It’s a little funny. The Chosen King, Bearer of the Prophecy, Liege of the Stone, a baker.

(_The Oracle, a fisherman. _

_Ha. _

_Ha._

_Ha._)

Noctis pens a response and whistles. Umbra shimmers into existence with a soft yip, ever cognizant of the quiet that surrounds his home in a perpetual cycle. Noctis takes a moment to lather Umbra in affection, their moments together always so rare and fleeting, ever since Pryna had succumbed to the wounds she received during the Siege and handed the canine Messenger the blue notebook.

“Here you are, Umbra,” Noctis says with a soft smile; the smile he doesn’t give the photographers or the Imperial (human, at least) soldiers or the Imperial retainers or— “Safe travels.”

Umbra barks in response. Noctis’ room dims at Umbra’s exit.

After a moment of staring at his reflection, at the coldness of his eyes, Noctis settles on the cushions that littered his window bench. If anyone were to capture him now, still dressed in his Oracle fatigues and impeccable designs, Noctis could already imagine the headlines and the statements from various journalists and news outlets that lap up any information on the Oracle as if they were dehydrated dogs.

There goes the Oracle, so sick and so small, and so, so _delicate_. _<strike>Is it any surprise the Emperor, so kind, so benign, has taken the young Oracle under his wing, protected him in his grief, in his youthful rage?</strike>_

Noctis exhales. Counts his heartbeats. His nineteenth-year creeps forth, like the distant MT troops that march in the distance, around Fenestala each morning like clockwork; guarding, protecting, keeping Noctis locked safe and deep inside a home that has turned into a prison.

“Prompto?” Noctis stares out of his window. His reflection depicts one of longing, of weariness, of a quiet that has been carved deep into the white of his bone. “I would like to take a walk.”

His Messenger does not speak, only holds Noctis’ hand like he had done the day Noctis buried his father, and his fathers’ retainers, and the few relatives he had left, and the Glaives who had once watched Noctis learn to walk, and to run, and to speak. The day he truly became the last prince (_<strike>the last king</strike>_) of Tenebrae. The last Oracle to grace the air his people breathed.

“I’m sorry, Noct,” Prompto says.

Noctis exhales. His breath crawls on the glass. He counts his heartbeat and thinks of the sound of clanging metal and gunfire, of blood splattered on marble. Of the Chancellor oh-so-gently placing his fathers’ crown, still so warm with blood, with the echo of his fathers' life, in the nest of Noctis’ curls.

The sun disappears beneath the forest trees, and the stars speak their songs. An MT troop begin a night patrol. A few servants rush about to finish the days’ tasks. Someone knocks on his door and tells him dinner will be served in fifteen. Noctis pays it little mind. He focuses on the chilly warmth of Prompto’s hand in his own, like the smile of the sun on his skin in the middle of the coldest wintry day.

The sun falls, and it is just them: Noctis and Prompto. Oracle and Messenger. It is the only thing the Empire can never take from Noctis.

**Author's Note:**

> i honestly don't know what this is. i wrote it while i downed a whole bag of skittles, watching chopped, and listening to when the partys' over by billie eilish. 
> 
> Drop a comment/kudos if you enjoyed it!


End file.
